If I Told You What I've Done
by GilraenDernhelm
Summary: Part 1 of 'Be The Lightning In Me'. More people should ship Arya and Jaime! It has taken Ned Stark ten years to discover Jaime and Cersei's incest, and Robert Baratheon promptly sentences both of them to death. Arya, who is married to Jaime, visits him in his cell the night before his execution, demanding answers. Title is from 'No Light No Light' by Florence the Machine
1. Chapter 1

Jaime devoted the first few weeks of his imprisonment to distracting himself from the fierce heat of the black cells. He spent his days being as blithely provocative and as maddeningly insolent as possible, but his guards had proved so easy to aggravate that the pastime had soon lost its appeal. They were the most undisciplined soldiers he had ever encountered; brawling endlessly about some tavern wench that the one had fucked without the other's permission. He would normally have found endless enjoyment in reflecting on Robert Baratheon's inability to do so simple a thing as choose his own men correctly, but laughing would require him to open his mouth. Opening his mouth would remind him how thirsty he was.

Eventually, he resorted to doing what tens of thousands of residents of the black cells had done before him. Sleep. Dream. Hope. And do not, under any circumstances, think. That would lead to madness, and he did not intend to be the first Lannister to be dragged giggling and blathering to the block.

He was instantly on his guard as an ominous silence descended abruptly on his captors. He closed his eyes, listening for footsteps or breathing. When he heard neither, he smiled to himself, as he did each time he fell asleep. He wouldn't put it past Father to send a Faceless Man to slit his throat while he dreamed. It would be a devastating final 'fuck you,' thwarting the King's desire to see House Lannister's disgrace exploited to the full. When the door eventually swung open, he opened his eyes and beamed. It wasn't a Faceless Man; but it was the next best thing.

Arya strode into his cell, her long limbs outlined by the torches burning beyond the door. She tossed him a wineskin.

'Lie to me, and I'll open you from balls to brains.'

He believed her. He could see the wolf blood stirring in her from here.

'Are Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella your and Cersei's bastards?' she demanded.

He was painfully aware of the fact that she'd know instantly if he lied (she always did), but he considered it none the less, if only to spare her. Very little about those children was truly his in any case. Cersei had seen to that. That vicious little cunt Joffrey apparently spent his days firing a crossbow. _A crossbow_, if one could believe such a thing. Any son of his would have been taken firmly in hand before such an embarrassment could occur.

But Arya wouldn't understand, and he didn't want her to. The day she did would be the day that he no longer loved her.

She was still speaking.

'_Are the Queen's children yours_?' she pressed him.

'My lady – '

'Yes or no. And don't call me that.'

'Yes.'

She said nothing. He uncorked the wineskin and drank, nearly choking in his desire to gulp down the liquid. She was looking at him as an adult might on revisiting a nightmare that had tormented them as a child; the pain of their original fear ever present, but tempered with an adult sadness that spiders and ghosts were the worst monsters their innocent minds could conjure up in the dark.

Suspicion clenched sickeningly around his throat like the jaws of a wolf, the red abyss yawning beyond them.

'The children?' he rasped, blood rising so quickly to his head that he thought he might faint.

Arya showed him no mercy.

'_Cersei's _children are – '

'_I don't give a fuck about Cersei's children_! Do _ours_ still live?'

That did not seem to please her as much as he thought it would.

'They were well the last time I saw them,' Arya responded, the winds of winter in her voice.

The wolf released him. _They were alive. They lived. They lived, thank the gods. _

It was only then that he noticed the second half of Arya's sentence, and his heart sank again.

'Arya. What have you done?'

'What have _I _done?'

'Where are they?'

'Casterly Rock.'

'Casterly _Rock_? Why in seven hells would you…'

Then it dawned on him.

'This is Father, isn't it?'

'He's taken them under his protection.'

'_Have you lost your mind?_'

'He's named Tyrion his heir.'

'_Tyrion_? Not bloody likely.'

'_Our _Tyrion, stupid.'

'_And you think Father can be trusted_?'

'We both know he can be trusted with any child of mine.'

Jaime grudgingly admitted to himself that she was probably right. Lord Tywin loved Arya so much he'd probably marry her himself the moment Jaime's head rolled.

'Why hasn't he taken _you_ under his protection, then?'

'I don't need protection.'

'And what did he have to say about that?'

'He called me a fool.'

'And so you are.'

'Fuck you, Jaime!'

'Go to him at Casterly Rock and stop being so bloody stubborn!'

'Tell me what to do again, and I'll break both your legs.'

'Breaking my legs won't make you any less dead when Robert decides to execute you, _my lady_!'

'I can take care of myself!'

'Then why not protect our children yourself?'

'Something tells me our wine-sodden oaf of a King will be more afraid of crossing the great Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock than Arya Horseface of Winterfell. I'd rather not take the chance.'

He smirked in satisfaction that Arya still bore Robert no love, even after all this time. At their wedding feast, the King had fallen so deeply into his cups that he had mistaken her for her Aunt Lyanna and had swooped down on her to kiss her. Arya had kneed him in the balls before trying to stab him with a carving knife, and a bloodbath had only been prevented by the speedy intervention of the Lords Eddard and Tywin; the former clouting Robert soundly around the head but threatening to disinherit his daughter for treason; the latter hauling Arya to her feet and offering to make her his heir should Lord Eddard attempt any such thing. Jaime had laughed so hard that an entire mouthful of Dornish red had spurted from his nostrils. Then it had occurred to him that this farce of a marriage might not be such an encumbrance after all. What a woman!

And all the while Cersei was glowering at him. Guessing his thoughts, most likely; knowing what was to come. He and Arya had spent most of their wedding night playing cyvasse; his young bride having made it clear that she would geld him if he attempted to touch her; Jaime himself not entertaining the slightest wish to do so. It hadn't taken her long to realise he was letting her win, more out of laziness than gallantry. She swore at him. He swore back. He won the next three games. She scowled. By midnight she had kissed him. An hour later, her clumsy maiden fingers were fumbling at the laces of his breeches.

'What happened to gelding me?' he grinned against her swollen lips.

'Shut up,' she snapped.

By morning he had discovered a dagger strapped to her thigh and another between her breasts; and had relieved her of both.

And now his wife was the one glowering at him; speaking to him as though he were the dirt under her boots. Part of him loved her for it. The rest of him wanted to open her stomach for her ability to make him despise himself without saying a word.

'Is it also true about Bran?' she murmured, so softly he could barely hear her.

'Yes.'

A strange conflagration of sounds erupted from her throat: part sob, part groan, part scream; a harsh discord of noises that did not belong in the same human voice. She put her hands on her knees, forcing herself to breathe.

She was quiet. He feared her when she was quiet. So he drank deeply, belched because he knew it would provoke her, and laid the skin on the floor next to him. He raised his eyes once again to where Arya now leaned against the wall, her hair plastered to her face from the heat.

'Well, Lady Lannister – or is it Lady Stark again already?'

She did not rise to the bait.

'Are you going to kill me yourself? Or are you happy to leave it to Ser Ilyn to decapitate Cersei and me simultaneously?'

Arya muttered something indistinctly.

'What's that?' he exclaimed, straining to hear.

Arya folded her arms.

'She's dead, Jaime.'


	2. Chapter 2

He had known of course. He had felt the poison so acutely it might as well have been putrefying his own veins. He hadn't cried out, and he knew Cersei hadn't either, the corruption that riddled her body with shards of ice a release rather than a torment. When the pain had stopped, he had felt nothing and he had not tried to. He wanted to remember her as the woman he thought she had been; before his stubborn wolf child had taught him better. His mind would be easier that way.

Arya had seen his thoughts in his face and was glaring at him, murder in her eyes.

'Why, you – '

'Arya –'

'You _felt _it? Really?'

'Stop – '

'Why pretend not to know?'

'It was a slip of the tongue!'

'Is that meant to make me feel better?'

'She was my _twin_!'

He thought that would explain everything. Erroneously, it would seem, as Arya then seized the nearest heavy object (his chamber pot; empty, thank the gods) and tried to cave his skull in with it. Her first strike produced such a quantity of blood that she backed off immediately, flinging it into a corner of the room.

Arya slumped against the wall.

'Robert was planning on telling you tomorrow, in front of the entire city. He says he wants everyone to see the look on your face before you die.'

Now it was Jaime's turn to be angry.

'But you'd prefer to have that pleasure all to yourself, wouldn't you, my little wolf bitch?' he spat, 'You've every right to it. Were you looking forward to it?'

Arya shrugged matter-of-factly.

'Yes.'

'Don't you lie to me.'

'I've warned you about telling me what to do, Kingslayer.'

'And I've warned you about that name, _my lady_. Say it again; _see what happens_!'

'How much can 'happen' when you're chained to a dungeon wall?'

'You think chained hands will stop me throttling you?'

As she opened her mouth to hiss another insult at him, their eyes met, and both began to laugh.

'You're a bitch.'

'And you're a sick, lying - '

Something seemed to occur to her then, and he watched as her mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

'Was it difficult?' Arya asked, her grey eyes like wildfire in the gloom.

'Was what difficult?' he grunted, in no mood for riddles.

'Being married to me.'

He snorted.

'You have no idea.'

She didn't seem to notice, and continued to speak.

'Fighting me. Fucking me. Laughing with me. Listening to me tell you I loved you, like some stupid princess from the songs. Was it difficult for you to live with that, knowing that Bran – knowing that -' her voice started to break, 'my sister…my _sister_ has been widowed, her children made bastards, _my _children made as good as. And all because Cersei wouldn't love you without some…some _stupid _display that she thought was proof. You blind, bloody fool. You still don't see.'

She was wrong. He had seen for longer than she could know.

His eyes flickered to the thin, castle-forged steel sword at her hip, a gift from that idiot bastard brother of hers that she wore year in and year out despite its being too small to do much damage to any enemy who wasn't lying prostrate begging for his life. He wondered if she had ever blooded it; the little girl sword that looked more like a toothpick than a weapon. He had never given her a sword, fool that he was. But perhaps he could give her something else.

'Kill me,' he said suddenly.

On her face he saw nothing but disappointment that he hadn't answered her question. He repeated his request, and the expression on her face was instantly replaced by a childlike scowl.

'Why?' she demanded.

'Why not?' he shrugged, 'Don't insult my intelligence by telling me you wouldn't trade places with Ser Ilyn in a heartbeat.'

'_Intelligence_?'

But her lips were pouting as she thought about it, and frown lines were forming charmingly between her eyes. She wanted to. He could see it. He had wronged her and she wanted to kill him. The hunter in her had been awakened, and she wanted to taste his blood.

'Come along, my love,' he said, 'why let the boys have all the fun?'

That decided her, as he had known it would. He could see her sizing him up as she might an object of prey, her eyes flickering to his head, his throat, his chest, his stomach. She drew Needle from her belt, crossed the cell to where he reclined against the wall and seized his elbow, yanking him up.

'On your knees.'

Jaime wondered briefly why she was getting onto her own knees in front of him, before realising that she wanted to look him in the eye as she killed him. The way of the North. The fool child. She could do that just as well standing up; not that he was complaining. Had she never attended an execution before? Probably not, he realised. He often forgot how young she was.

'Stomach or chest?' Arya offered, cold but gracious.

'Chest,' he replied, 'I've no desire to examine my own insides as I die. Unless you're planning on cutting my heart out.'

'The thought had occurred to me.'

He smiled as Arya placed Needle's tip squarely against his chest and shifted, her muscles tightening as she braced herself, her fingers grasping the hilt, utterly focused on the place and the angle at which the blade would enter him.

_Seven hells_, Jaime thought,_ she's really going to do it. _

He closed his eyes and thought about the children he would never see again; Tyrion scowling as the master of arms dragged him from the library to the yard, Visenya protesting vehemently as her septa did the reverse. That bloody septa. She would probably spend the rest of her dried-up, dismal days indoctrinating his daughter with a horror of her father's heresies against the Faith. It had taken six months to convince Arya to engage one. Perhaps she had been right not to want one at all.

Of course the children would have to be told sooner or later: both his crimes and his face would mark them for the rest of their lives. They both looked like him. Even their names would remind people; Tyrion's having famously annoyed Lord Tywin (perhaps intentionally) and Visenya's the King (perhaps that was intentional too). Would his children hate him when they thought of him? Would Arya?

She still hadn't killed him.

'Get on with it, wife,' he insisted, his eyes still closed, 'my knees are getting sore.'

He opened his eyes as the familiar clang of metal on stone rang out between them.

'I can't.'

Arya's little head fell exhausted onto his chest, her arms so tight around his waist they hurt him. He didn't care. She was his and he was hers and she was crying and she still loved him. Fuck the rest.

'I can't,' she whispered, 'I'm so sorry, I can't - '

Jaime plunged his tongue into her mouth, her sobs convulsing through him as he kissed her, and she was kissing him back as she shivered and cried, tasting of grief and wholeness. He felt her smiling and sobbing beneath his lips, and he knew that she was not here to set him free. She would not go to the King and beg for mercy. She would stand at her father's side tomorrow and watch him die, and believe that justice had been done. But he knew she would take no joy in it. That would be her final gift to him.

They had been sparring in the yard the morning the gold cloaks had come for him. He had been lying flat on his back following a spectacular blow from Arya (luck), when he was abruptly flipped over and his face shoved hard into the dirt.

It had taken five men to hold him still as his hands were bound. By the time he was dragged to his feet, Arya had taken three goldcloaks down, and as he shouted at her to stop, he wondered for the umpteenth time precisely what it was that that Braavosi master taught her that enabled her to move so quickly, quick as a snake, quiet as a shadow, calm as still water. Eventually, one of them did not even bother to draw his sword, dealing her a vicious backhand that knocked her out cold.

Their commander hardly seemed to notice, shouting at his men to leave the bitch and form up.

'For that, Slynt,' he growled at the commander's back, 'I _will_ kill you.' Her small form had been the last thing he had seen as the gold cloaks took him away, every backward glance gaining him a blow to the head. By the time he was thrown into the black cells, his ears were ringing.

'It wasn't difficult, knowing about Bran,' he said, stroking her hair as though she were a child, 'it was agony.'


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: This chapter is intended to take place BEFORE the last two. Arya asks Tywin Lannister to take her children under his protection. For those readers unfamiliar with the Faceless Men, all you need to know is that a Faceless Man is trained intensively to be able to tell if a person is lying.

The sunrise was a barricade of deep indigo blue against the sky, brilliant Lannister crimson erupting above the clouds like a river running red. The air was laden with the smell of fresh salt, blown for miles across the open land from the sea. The four travellers hovered on the edge of night, waiting for the sun to banish the dew from their cloaks and the cold from their bones.

'Can I take this hood off now?' Visenya complained, her voice muffled by her rough spun woollen robe.

Arya considered telling her to be quiet, before reasoning that two more blond heads at Casterly Rock would probably not attract much attention.

'Yes, alright.'

As Visenya and Tyrion removed their hoods, their hair shining like spun gold as the sun crept higher and higher above the inky clouds, Arya turned to Jory Cassel, who had come upon them in the stables and had insisted on accompanying them despite Arya's vociferous objections.

'_It's either that, or I run straight up to your father and tell him you're leaving, my lady,' he had said, his arms folded with characteristic Northern stubbornness. Arya had accused him of being underhanded. He had shrugged in response._

'Jory,' she said, sounding more confident than she felt, 'keep the children here while I speak with Lord Tywin. Visenya is not to go exploring.'

'Shouldn't I take them to their chambers, my lady?'

Arya removed her gloves and shook her head.

'No. I don't know if we'll be staying.'

Jory's eyes were grey with fear.

'You think he'll turn you away,' he said simply.

'I'd rather not assume anything,' Arya answered, trying not to laugh as she watched Jory flee to a spot some ten feet away where Tyrion and Visenya were already sparring and shrieking like demons.

'Jory?' Arya called out again as he confiscated Tyrion and Visenya's toy swords.

'My lady?' he responded, the tiny wooden blades clutched in one hand.

She swallowed.

'If anyone but me comes to fetch you away, kill them on sight and ride for Lannisport. Syrio Forel will find you.'

She ignored the look on Jory's face as she mounted up and urged her horse up the causeway to the gates of Casterly Rock. She did not truly believe that Lord Tywin would harm his own grandchildren; but when it came to proving House Lannister's loyalty to the crown, he had a bad reputation where children were concerned.

She gave her name to a guard at the gate and was allowed to enter immediately; her eyes fixed all the while on a corpse that hung high above their heads, flutteringly grotesquely in the wind.

'What did _he_ do?' Arya asked as she was led to Lord Tywin's solar. The guard confessed that he did not remember.

Lord Tywin did not rise to meet her as she was announced. He was writing. Knowing better than to interrupt, Arya pulled up a chair in front of his desk and waited, her eyes darting eagerly over the map of King's Landing that bore thirty-year-old ink marks at the sea, at the gates, at every crack in the city's walls.

He had never breached the city walls at any one of the points indicated, she realised. The world of the mind had won him King's Landing. Arya watched his face as he worked. There was no tension in him, no sharp sense of piercing concentration. His face was perfectly serene, his ice blue eyes tranquil as summer snow, but hard as obsidian. Perhaps that was why he never lost.

'Are you starting a war, Tywin?' Arya asked as he laid down his pen.

Tywin Lannister fixed his gaze upon her.

'Do you think I could let this insult pass without starting a war?'


	4. Chapter 4

Tywin clearly believed that the accusations against Jaime and Cersei were false. Arya had believed the same for one, blissful day. Bran may have been confused, she had reasoned. He may have been dreaming. The colouring of Cersei's children meant nothing at all: Arya herself was the only child among five trueborn siblings who had the Stark look. But then she had thought of Joffrey's brutalities, and her certainty had begun to fail her.

Syrio had come to her in her chamber after questioning Bran himself at her request. The skills of a Sword of Braavos in recognising a lie, or an innocent untruth, could not be contested.

Syrio's face had been whiter than ghost grass.

'I am so sorry, Arya, child.'

She had thrown up all night, Sansa kneeling on the floor beside her, rubbing her back and calling for lemon water to abate the nausea that consumed her each time she thought of Jaime and the Queen together. They were brother and sister. _Brother and sister. _

She told herself that it did not happen; _could not_ have happened while she and Jaime were married. He wouldn't. _He wouldn't._ She repeated it to herself again and again, shivering like a child in Sansa's arms. But she did not believe it. She did not think well enough of herself to believe it.

As the news of Syrio's findings spread from the Red Keep to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms like corruption from a wound, Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella were dragged from their beds in the middle of the night; Robert Baratheon cutting their throats himself. Sansa had been liberally sprayed with blood as her husband gasped his last rancid breath, and though their marriage had been a loveless one, Arya was soon the sister offering comfort as Sansa heaved and retched for three days and nights, insisting that she still smelled the blood regardless of how many times she bathed.

It did not take the Queen long to declare from the darkness of her cell that Arya had paid Syrio to produce such a congenial result in his interview with Bran, insisting at the same time that a raven be sent to Braavos summoning a Faceless Man to question Bran again and determine whether or not he was lying or delusional.

'And this Faceless Man would naturally be an impostor in Cersei's employ?' Tywin surmised, pouring her a cup of Arbour gold.

'In Littlefinger's,' Arya corrected, accepting the wine with a nod, 'Littlefinger was not open to persuasion that he would better serve himself by doing nothing. And Varys would not be convinced that he would better serve the realm by doing the same.'

'Then how is it that Cersei is dead and my son still rots in the black cells?' Tywin scoffed, disgusted.

Arya's face lit up, as it always did when she spoke of Syrio.

'My dancing master –'

'Forel?'

'Yes. He…well… _corresponds_ frequently with the Faceless Men.'

'Do Baelish and Varys know about this?'

'No.'

Arya took a certain pleasure in the unqualified disbelief on her good-father's face.

'_How so_?' Tywin demanded, displeased at his own amazement.

Arya shrugged flippantly.

'Lines of communication are open to Syrio that are not open to them.'

'_Is Forel a –_'

'_I don't know_, Tywin. And I'd prefer not to.'

Tywin exhaled deeply.

'Go on.'

Arya took another sip of wine.

'Syrio told them everything. So they sent a Man to decorate the spikes on the dry moat with the impostor's head and to speak with Bran.'

'And what was the result?'

'I think you know the answer to that, Tywin.'

'No, I do not.'

Arya slumped back in her chair, feeling frustrated and betrayed. She had been so certain she could convince him; that her word would be enough for him. She felt her head tingling as fury and misery reawakened in her heart.

'Do you _really_ still believe it is a falsehood?' Arya pressed him, her face beginning to go red.

'Certainly,' Tywin intoned, noticing, but unmoved.

'_Why_?' she insisted.

Tywin glared at her, wrath rising in his eyes.

'Because I would have known.'

'Oh, for _fuck's _sake, Tywin…'

'Arya,' he interrupted testily.

She threw up her hands in desperation and leapt abruptly to her feet, her wine goblet skittering across the floor.

'_How _would you have known? You were far too busy being a bitter, cantankerous old man after your wife's death to pay the slightest attention to what your own children were doing!'

'Careful, girl. I enjoy you, but be careful. Do not presume to chastise me in my own home.'

Arya surged onwards, delighted that she was making him angry, determined to clout some life into him, to make him_ see_.

'Jaime told me everything,' she stormed, 'How you shoved them about like they were pawns in some game of cyvasse; punishing them for not moving where you wanted them to. He told me what you did to Tyrion. He told me everything. And all the while that you were devoting your days and nights to showing your children what a disappointment they were to you, _and that_ only when you weren't serving that frothing lunatic of a king, you were too stupid to notice that Jaime and Cersei were fucking each other each time your back was turned!'

'Silence!' Lord Tywin shouted, bloodstains rising in his cheeks as a servant entered with wine.

'Get out!' Tywin roared.

The offender bolted for the door.

'Why do you think he joined the Kingsguard, you fool?' Arya bellowed, 'To embarrass you? _He did it for her _so he wouldn't have to marry!'

'And yet here you stand,' Tywin smiled mockingly, his tones like acid, 'Here stands the proof that my will can accomplish anything, even the annulment of a Kingsguard's vows. Why should I indulge three disobedient wretches when I have the power to undo the will of the gods themselves?'

Arya was silent. Tywin seemed to speak from the deepest of the seven hells, his voice a whisper and a roar.

'_Do not speak ill of the power I command when you intend to use it yourself_.'

Arya mumbled an apology and sat down as respectfully as she could.

'Do you really believe it is not true?' she ventured one last time.

He did not reply. Arya knew that was the most she could expect.

'Regardless of what I think,' Tywin remarked, the severity gone from his voice, 'I do not wish to be robbed of my heir.'

'Blood wipes everything clean,' Arya grunted.

Tywin looked at her. She covered her face with her hands.

'Forgive me,' she murmured, 'I've had no sleep.'

'I know you, girl. Do not think that you can lie to me.'

He knew. Perhaps he had not seen the dreams in which she sliced Needle across Jaime's pale, stupid, exquisite, _stupid_ throat and rejoiced, but he knew.

'You really wish him dead,' Tywin observed. It was not quite a question.

Arya shifted in her seat, her eyes on her boots.

'I wish my family's honour to be restored,' she replied.

Tywin grunted.

'A noble sentiment, my dear, but I detect a spark in your grey wolf eyes that tells me you would be disappointed if anyone other than you wielded the knife.'

Arya shrugged.

'A Lannister always pays her debts.'

Tywin laughed at that and called for wine, sighing with impatience when the servant did not appear.

'You told him to get out, Tywin.'

'It is all your doing, you wretched child. Fetch him back.'

'Do it yourself.'

'Careful, girl.'

'_Seven _hells_, how you do remind me of Jaime_!' Arya shouted.

Tywin remained firmly in his place, one eyebrow cocked quizzically at her. Arya sighed theatrically, stomped to the door, shouted for wine and returned to the table, glancing at the map as she took her seat again.

'Do you plan to lay siege to King's Landing?'

'Yes. Robert has acted like a man looking for war. I intend to provide him with one.'

'_War?_' Arya repeated disbelievingly,'Why not go in quick and quiet with one or two men and simply break Jaime out?'

Tywin smiled sadly at her, before his face hardened.

'There will be war, child, whether Jaime dies or not. Robert cannot be allowed to murder Lannisters with impunity, however abominable their origins may be…though I must confess their murders to be most advantageous in putting this mess behind us. 'Blood wipes everything clean.''

Hearing her own words in Tywin's mouth made Arya uncomfortable, so she abruptly changed the subject.

'I came here to ask you to take my children under your protection.'

He bowed his head.

'I will make your eldest my heir, to bind him further to me and to teach my son humility. Your children are welcome to the Rock, as are you.'

She shook hers.

'I have to go back to King's Landing. All the same, I thank you for – '

'Why would you do such a ridiculous thing?' Tywin interrupted, a hint of hysteria creeping into his voice.

Arya looked at him like he was mad.

'So I can kill Jaime, of course!' she snapped.

'Stop being such a little fool and stay here where it is safe!' Tywin commanded imperiously.

'My children are small and helpless,' she pouted stubbornly, '_They_ need protection. _I_ need to go back to King's Landing.'

'Robert will imprison you the moment you arrive.'

'My father will prevent him. As will my promise that I've returned to see the Kingslayer's head at the bottom of a basket.'

'Do you really intend to kill Jaime?'

'_Yes_. The sooner he dies, the sooner people will forget.'

Lord Tywin's eyes glowed brighter as he pondered her words, and for a moment he seemed unaware that she was there. He sat back in his chair and stared straight ahead of him, his face a cold mask.

'Tywin,' Arya observed impatiently, 'you are having an idea. I've told you not to have them when speaking to me. There's no fun in arguing with a dumbstruck old man.'

'Indeed,' Tywin murmured.

He looked up at her, decided.

'When you return to King's Landing, Arya, you will do something for me.'

'Of course, Tywin.'

'You will set my son free.'

Arya stared at him.

'I will not,' she declared.

Tywin dismissed her refusal with a casual wave of his hand.

'You will set him free…then take his life.'

Arya nearly screamed in frustration.

'I don't underst – '

'Don't interrupt, child.'

He took a clean sheet of paper from his drawer.

'Now. Let us discuss the details.'


	5. Chapter 5

'Stop shivering, wife,' Jaime insisted, Arya's back quivering against his chest, 'we both know you would never have done it.'

Arya did not reply as she steered their horse along the rocky banks of Blackwater Bay, knowing full well that they both knew nothing of the sort. Her teeth were chattering, and not from cold.

She had almost done it. The steel had seemed to sing in her hands as she had moved in for the kill, a soaring ecstasy spreading from where Needle's tip nestled almost lovingly against Jaime's chest, through her hand, up her arm and into the rest of her body. He deserved to die for what he had done. He deserved it. _He deserved it._ She didn't care about appeasing Robert, or Tywin, or the gods, or the mob. She had allowed herself to love him, and he had repaid her love with treachery, turning her into a weak little mouse too blind to notice what was staring her in the face. Yet in all the long hours that she lay awake thinking of him in the dark cells miles beneath her, she could not fathom when or where (she did not allow herself to think 'why') Jaime would have found time for Cersei after their marriage. Arya and Jaime had not slept apart for a single night in all their years together. They spent each morning beating each other senseless in the practice yard and each afternoon on the streets of King's Landing; Arya's curiosity about every backstreet, cellar and tavern in the city positively insatiable. They did this all day, every day until the children arrived, but Jaime had barely left her side even then. From the earliest days of their marriage, people had loved to gossip about their obvious attachment to each other despite their fairly constant arguing. Simpering maidens liked to whisper that it was positive proof that the love the singers spoke of existed. Soldiers liked to cackle that it was positive proof that cunt was king. Septas mentioned it constantly to any of their young charges who struggled to accept arranged marriages. And all the while Cersei was watching. What she saw did not please her.

Much to Cersei's disappointment, Arya had proved excruciatingly difficult to torment, avenging each insult and intrigue the Queen threw at her with equal, if not greater candour. Jaime had not slept a full night for any of that time, rowing incessantly with both women, but knowing all the while that his twin was truly to blame. It was only when Arya had refused the option of a whipping girl after hitting Cersei full in the face for a callous comment about Bran's legs that Jaime's mind on the subject had been made up. He had sat facing Arya as a maester attended to the lashes that traversed her back like cross-stitching; watching as she fiercely bit her tongue to keep herself from crying, her knuckles white on his shoulders. He had bowed his head rather suddenly, and as Arya's eyes bore into him, she saw that his eyes were damp. She would have ridiculed any other man from that day to his last for being so affected. Instead, she embraced him as the maester continued to work, her chin resting on his head, his breath warming her chest. That was the night that he told her he loved her. Cersei had never spoken to him again.

Only now did Arya realise what that had meant. She grew nauseous and slightly faint, as she always did when thinking of Jaime and Cersei together. She shivered at the thought of who she was, or perhaps of whom she had become, that she could be capable of thinking that killing Jaime would bring her peace; Jaime whom she loved wildly, as one of her pack. And she shivered because she had risked bringing the wrath of Tywin Lannister down on her in a hot-headed moment of stupidity. He had a high regard for her, but she knew full well that it would take him less than two days to send House Stark the way of House Reyne if she betrayed him.

'Arya!' Jaime exclaimed in alarm as her trembling became more violent.

She wanted to snap at him to leave her be and to keep his thoughts to himself, but he was warm, and she liked his smell. So she allowed Jaime to wrap himself around her like a quilt, her skin prickling beneath her clothes as the shivers gasped, clawed at her, and eventually died.

It was Lord Tywin's intention to tell the world that his son had been killed during the siege of King's Landing, reasoning that everyone capable of saying otherwise would very likely be dead by the time the siege was over. Arya was told to release Jaime and to put him on a boat to the Free Cities, using Syrio's contacts there to get him as far away from Westeros as possible. Jaime's death would prove invaluable in lightening the stain on the family name, though the blot itself would take centuries to disappear.

Syrio had given Arya strict directions to one of the many smugglers' alcoves that dotted the rocky outcrops around Blackwater Bay, and it was in this direction that she and Jaime now rode. Across the water, the siege had already started, Lannister warships bobbing almost cheerfully on the waves as their trebuchets hurled fire at the city walls. Jaime tried to speak several times, but was continually shushed by Arya. She did not intend to get this far, only to be compromised by his smart mouth.

Arya checked their position relative to that of the Red Keep and spoke to the darkness.

'Valar Morghulis.'

'Valar Dohaeris,' a voice at Arya's knee responded.

She felt Jaime jump in surprise.

'It's alright, you dolt. It's only Syrio.'

Arya dismounted as Jaime gave the Braavosi a foul look. Syrio then remarked that if they were to reach their place of destination alive, Ser Jaime would have to learn to be looking at people with more respect. Arya smiled to herself. Jaime always got on unfailingly well with people he could have a good fight with.

'Arya, child,' Syrio said, taking her hand, 'it is best that you know nothing of where I take your lord husband tonight.'

'I agree,' Arya concurred, 'what I don't know cannot be torn from me.'

'_Torn_ from you?' Jaime interjected in horror.

'We can't tell what may happen in future, stupid,' Arya drawled, as she would to a five-year-old child.

Jaime was suddenly frantic.

'I am not leaving this place if you will be in danger.'

'Your concern should be for those who might seek to place me in it.'

Syrio retreated hastily from the line of fire to the nearest outcrop of rock, from which he proceeded to pull a boat. It emerged from the stone as though from thin air. Arya would normally have been fascinated to learn how such a feat was achieved or what manner of camouflage was used. Tonight, she simply did not care.

'How will you write if you don't know where I am?' Jaime demanded.

Arya's chest broke that he still imagined they'd be able to write, her temper flaring that he assumed she would want to. Her fingers curled into a fist, but instead of planting it on his nose, she unfolded it and reached up to cup his cheek. He was so much taller than she was.

'Oh, my sweet summer child,' Arya murmured, as she would to a total innocent.

Jaime's face was a distorted blur of confusion and turmoil, his eyes like the wolfswood in winter.

'But how will we – is this –' Jaime floundered.

He recovered quickly, stepping away from her.

'What happens now, my lady? I sneak off with your dancing master in the middle of the night, my father sacks this city and chooses you a new husband from among his allies?'

'What a splendid idea!'

'It _is_, isn't it? You two have probably discussed it at length!'

'Not really. I told him I would accept any man among them who hasn't fucked his own sister. That didn't leave much to discuss.'

A strange coalescence of sighing and groaning burst from Jaime's throat.

'How dare you stand there groaning at me, Ser?' Arya demanded, 'If I plagued you about this for the rest of your life, it wouldn't be enough!'

'Well, perhaps you're entitled to that – '

'_Perhaps_ I'm entitled to it?'

'Cersei and I may already have been fucking twenty years before you were born, but I certainly didn't love her!'

'How_ madly_ generous of you!'

'Cersei doesn't love anyone; she loves herself!'

'That must be another thing you have in common!'

He ignored her and plunged on.

'All Cersei wanted was a mirror she could carry around in her pocket! A half-blind, half-drunk copy of herself; with a cock, of course, that she could send out to do whatever she wanted. She must have loved it: possessing a slave so willing to obey that he had no notion of having a master at all. So no, my stubborn wolf child: I didn't love Cersei, _I don't love Cersei_, I love you. She made me a slave. You have – '

'If you say 'you have set me free,' I'll cut your tongue out and eat it.'

Jaime tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

'But you have, my dearest love. You have.'

When he kissed her, she didn't pull away, almost crying with the desire to simply take his hand and run with him. But she hadn't forgiven him, could not forgive him, and at Casterly Rock, Tyrion and Visenya were waiting for her. If she did not return from the war before Tywin did, he would make both of them geniuses in strategy before their tenth birthdays. She was not sure she wanted that.

Syrio was waving insistently from where he stood knee-deep in water, the boat rope coiled around his arm. The tide was going out.

Arya and Jaime stood together for a moment; close, but not touching. Arya later thought she'd told him that she loved him…but perhaps she didn't. Neither would surprise her.

As she watched the boat become smaller and smaller, and the flames on the city walls burn higher and higher, it occurred to her that she'd forgotten to ask.

'Husband?' she called out, afraid of Varys' little birds.

Jaime stood immediately and nearly tipped the boat over, the darkness turning his hair silver.

'Yes?'

'Did you fuck her while we were married?'

Jaime laughed and bowed theatrically.

'And why would I do that, you little fool? I'm married to perfection!'

As the boat disappeared from view, Arya kicked at a rock and stalked away.

'Perfection, he says,' she muttered.

* * *

Notes

That's all, folks! I will start working on a sequel in two weeks, when I get back from holiday. Thank you for all the favourites and the kind reviews! Please leave more of these, so that I can better spread the love of Arya and Jaime!

Finally, fans of Daughter will notice that I've stolen two images from 'Wild Youth' in this last chapter. This is because certain parts of this beautiful song do a far better job of describing this ship than I ever could. Apologies if offence is given. It is intended as a tribute/subtle wink to sister souls.

Valar Morghulis, all, and thank you once again!


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